The History of Ben Stark
by Steppo
Summary: History is in trouble. Experiment after experiment has corrupted time and created an unstoppable war machine capable of dominating the globe. Only one person can stop them... and that's Benjamin Stark. Feel the power in the sequel to Ryan Stepalavich's 1s


The History of Ben Stark  
  
By Ryan Stepalavich  
  
  
  
Epilogue  
  
Athens, Greece- 1 Mile from the Brotherhood of Nod's headquarters  
  
July 20, 2001  
  
0400 Hours  
  
Constant battling in Athens in the last fourteen days left the great city in ruins. Even the ruins saw better days. Ben didn't care. "I'll chase you round the devil's flame before I give you up, Kane." And that was almost what he was doing. A-10 napalm airstrike after airstrike left the horizon on fire, but the HQ still stood. Sheppard stood with Stark.  
  
"Do we have the Mammoths?" Ben asked.  
  
"Yes." Sheppard nodded.  
  
"Do it." And with that, thousands of gargantuan tanks rolled in on the base.  
  
Mammoth Tanks, as they were called, were nearly three times the size of conventional tanks, three times the armor, and three times the devastation. These monstrosities carried dual 150mm cannons and Dragon Tow Missile packs. They could probably go through ten tank platoons and not even think about it. And they closed in on the HQ.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Kane sat at his desk, staring at his laptop. Men and women alike were in a panicked frenzy running back and forth in preparation to evacuate.  
  
"No, Ben." Kane said, smiling. "We have waited centuries for this moment. The rivers will flow with the blood of those who oppose us." He brought up the main terminal.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Brotherhood of Nod Main Terminal  
  
Login Name: Kane  
  
Password:*****  
  
Thank You  
  
Command: Launch Nuclear ICBM  
  
Target: GDI Headquarters-Talinn, Estonia  
  
Thank You  
  
Reminder  
  
In any event that transmission from Nod Headquarters is lost, warhead will self-destruct.  
  
Confirm Launch Password: *****  
  
Thank You  
  
Launching.......  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
A door in the ground opened near Ben's feet. Then, a deafening roar emerged from the newfound pit. A humongous rocket exploded out of the hole. "Uh Oh." Ben thought. "Level that jerk now!" A crackle came on Ben's EVA headset.  
  
"Consider it leveled." Josh said through the EVA. Cannons began to bark all over Athens.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The Headquarters quickly emptied. Kane was the only one standing in the whole building.  
  
"Traitors." Kane said.  
  
A loud, automated voice boomed through the whole building. "Missile impact in T-30 seconds."  
  
"I win Benjamin. You lose." Kane laughed. But he quickly stopped. He heard something. A whistle. Like a shell screaming through the-  
  
"No! I won! Not you!" The whistle got louder.  
  
"NO!" The whistle became a scream. Kane jumped up and began to run to the exit. Too late. All Kane saw was a flash and a pile of boulders coming on top of him.  
  
"Launch te-rm-inated......." and the HQ was gone.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Ben looked at the ruined base through his binoculars. Thoroughly satisfied, he put them down.  
  
"GDI: 1, Nod: Zip." He said. He then switched his EVA on. "Gentlemen, the Tiberian War is officially over." The whole of Athens, and most likely the free world, roared in enthusiasm and victory. But, Ben was preoccupied with a blue hue that surrounded him, and not only him, but also Josh Bitterman and Paul Phearson alike. The cheers got louder and louder. But, three people were absent from this celebration.  
  
Ben, Paul, and Josh, simultaneously, disappeared.  
  
  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Red Square, United Soviet Socialist Republic  
  
February 23, 1941  
  
0930 Hours  
  
The ice wind bit hard, like a ferocious Siberian Husky, at his neck. Pulling his trench coat tight around him, he hoped to block out the howling blasts. As he looked at his frost bitten watch, 9:30 AM, he began his brisk walk towards the War Office. He was late, and didn't care.  
  
"I'm far too important for them to reprimand me." He thought to himself.  
  
As he climbed up the innumerous front stairs, he began to remove his coat, regardless of his body's implorations for heat. He had no time to flirt with the front secretary. He opened the door and stepped in. A woman, entirely leather-clad with the soviet hammer-and-scythe emblem all over her, as well as numerous medals and badges, her rank insignia upon her left shoulder proclaimed her as a lieutenant, stood and saluted.  
  
"Good morning, Comrade Nar-"  
  
He tossed his trench coat at the woman. It covered her head and body in its entirety.  
  
"Another time, Zofia."  
  
Lt. Zofia clawed at the frigid coat and ripped it off her. She glared with the fury of the wind outside, but it subsided. Today, after all, was a very important day.  
  
"As you wish, Comrade Lieutenant," she gave a slightly smaller salute, more of a nod than anything else. "Shall I prepare your car for you for when you get back?"  
  
"I said 'another time', Zofia." He said without turning to look back. He had no time to flirt, or sleep, with her tonight. There was work to be done. He entered the elevator across the lobby. Once inside, he opened the top two buttons of his uniform and removed a key from around his neck. Inserting the key in a lock near the button panel, he pushed the button marked "B-3". As the elevator gave a lurch and began its descent, a security camera within the elevator suddenly came to life, scanning the room in its entirety, finally coming to rest on the Lieutenant.  
  
"Even on their side, I'm a prisoner." He mused. He looked directly at the camera and glared.  
  
Several seconds passed. After, the elevator gave a loud ping and the doors opened to a white room. Two guards stood at attention, waiting for their new guest. The Lieutenant gave a silent laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Idiots." He thought. "How easy it would be to defeat the both of these worthless things and assassinate Comrade Stalin." But his loyalties were to Stalin, and to Mother Russia. He would not dream such a thing. Consider, maybe, but not dream.  
  
"Comrade Narmanov," one of the guards approached him, with his deep baratone voice, "Your identification card, please?"  
  
"For the love of God, Alexsander," Narmanov fumbled for his wallet, "why do we have to do this every time I arrive?"  
  
"Our apologies, sir," The other guard rested his hand on his Kalashnikov, "but rules are rules."  
  
"Very well" Narmanov sighed. He finally got to his wallet, opened it, and removed his military ID. "Here."  
  
The guard, Alexsander, looked at the card, back at Narmanov, then at the card again. The lieutenant gave a sigh of impatience, tapping his foot loudly. Alexsander smiled and gave the card back.  
  
"Very good, sir. The others are waiting." Both guards removed keys from around their necks and inserted them into locks on either side of the door. They silently counted to three and turned their keys. The door opened.  
  
"Have a good meeting, sir." The other guard joked.  
  
"Yes." Narmanov began to walk to the door. When he was standing between the guards, in a flash, his dual Glock .45s came out and he pointed them at either guard's head. "Lucky for you, I'm in a good mood for a meeting." Alexsander nervously smiled. The other, the sarcastic one, began to tremble like an earthquake had begun, then folded completely, curled in a fetal position and sobbing. Narmanov smiled as he placed his sidearms back into their holsters. He leaned toward Alexsander.  
  
"Why do we conscript these people?" Narmanov joked.  
  
"No clue, sir." Alexsander stood back at attention and saluted. Narmanov did likewise and walked into the office, the door sliding shut behind him.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"What do you mean, 'Appears to be massing'?", General Von Esling shouted at his counterpart, "Are they attacking, or not?"  
  
Stavros looked at the maps showing all soviet troop movement along the Eurasian border. "That's all I can say, Gunter," he drew his finger along Greece, "But, if I were you, I'd be doing the same."  
  
"I'm not going to heat tensions between sides!" Von Esling slammed his fist on the map.  
  
They were in a conference room. A projection screen was behind them showing Allied troop movement within Europe. All the allies, at least the major ones, England, France, Germany, Greece, and Spain were all updated on the present situation on the hour.  
  
In the center of the room was a conference table, pitchers of water were lying in wait for the next big meeting. Crystal glasses stood erect and docile, refracting the light on the white tablecloth, turning the cloth all the colors of the rainbow. The walls were an antiseptic white, with portraits of great leaders hanging on them. Multiple name cards were placed all over the table, one per seat. The names upon them were the ones of the leaders of the Allied forces – General Gunter Von Esling, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces; General Nikkos Stavros, Head Commander of the Greek Forces; General James Carville – Commander of the American Forces (who's Congress had politely bowed out of the conflict); and General Dimitry Gregeorvich Narmanov – Commander of the Baltic States. Unfortunately, Soviet aggression led the Baltic States, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, into submission. They couldn't handle the bloodshed if they were made a war zone by either side. Narmanov was just made a lieutenant in the Red Machine, Stavros heard. Traitor.  
  
"It's not a matter of tension, Gunter," Stavros went to Narmanov's name card, "It's a matter of protection." He flicked the card and it fell over. "We must amass some sort of retaliatory force to counter this juggernaut. And with Narmanov..."  
  
"Narmanov is irrelevant, Nikkos," Von Esling removed a dagger from it's sheath on his belt. "He had to do what he needed to do to survive. Perhaps, if we can reach him, he can help us..." he hurled the dagger at the map. It hit Moscow squarely. "...crush the Reds."  
  
Stavros coughed. He never thought that either one of them had the resources required to defeat the Russians. Four hundred eighty-one billion Swiss francs were no match for the puny funds that they had to work with. Their soldiers, although sufficiently better trained than the Red conscripts, were a mere speck compared to the Soviet sledgehammer. The generals themselves were losing their touch. Von Esling was in his early fifties, white hair crowning his chiseled, stone German face. Stavros was in his late forties, showing the natural avocado tan of a Greek and the facial features of a man who has had one too many helpings of caviar.  
  
Narmanov, however, was a more youthful general in his late twenties. An exceptional marksman, fighter, and strategist, he had led many of the field battles during some of the Russian attacks. He had black, scruffy hair, a rather clear complexion, hazel eyes, a strong nose, and wore workers' clothes – the clothes he grew up in and in which he found himself to be most comfortable. At least that was the way that the Allies knew him. Now, who knows…  
  
Carville was the one that Stavros most laughed at. A man in his late thirties, he was completely bald, "Cueball" as the General put it. He had a thick, gray mustache that wobbled as he spoke. He was the renegade of the group. The Cowboy, Stavros had called him, was always the one ready to jump into things, like Narmanov, but was almost comical about it. He'd "pack heat" as he labeled, and carry with him two polished Colt .45 semi- automatic pistols underneath his jacket. Narmanov had always said that it was Carville who was going to ride into the sunset alone. Unfortunately, Carville was the one who was the "yellow-belly" as far as Stavros was concerned.  
  
"Nikkos!" Von Esling snapped. Stavros shook his head to regain his concentration. "Will you please pay attention?"  
  
"Uh… yes, of course." Stavros sat down and poured himself a glass of water. The heat was making him relaxed and drowsy. He scanned the map one more time before raising the glass to his lips…  
  
"STOP!" Von Esling slapped the glass out of Nikkos' hand before he could touch the water. General Stavros fell out of his chair in shock, but quickly stood with his hand on his sidearm.  
  
"What! What is it?" Stavros scanned around the room, looking for anything suspicious.  
  
"Who brought that water here?"  
  
They looked at the spill on the deep blue carpet and at the stain the water left. That water wasn't water. The spill had bleached out the color of the carpet.  
  
"We are no longer safe, my friend."  
  
"Yes. I'll call the guard." Von Esling picked up the phone receiver, gave a few orders into it, and placed it back on the cradle. Within moments, a small squad of riflemen, about twenty, came through the door, waiting for the generals' movement.  
  
"We may have to retreat to London, Gunter."  
  
"I know, friend."  
  
"There may be a time where I'll no longer be worth holding on to."  
  
Gunter smiled and clapped a hand on Stavros' shoulder. "Never, Nikkos, you are my friend and my brother, we shall never separate." With that, they walked into the crisp, German air.  
  
**********  
  
Narmanov took his seat at the foot of the conference table. On his right was General Ivan Gradyenko. A slim man, no older than thirty-five, with red hair and a goatee to match, Gradyenko wasn't one to take kindly to new officers. So, Narmanov and Gradyenko didn't get along well. On Lt. Narmanov's left was the deadly and gorgeous Captain Nadya, a known spy and assassin and personal confidant (Narmanov laughed at the propagandists' replacement for the word "lover") to Comrade Stalin. She also seemed to have a certain liking to Narmanov. Dimitry wanted nothing to do with that. He had Zofia, and she was all the Russian woman he needed. She flashed a perfect smile at him, which he did not return. Gradyenko gave him a harsh scowl, to which he did return. Narmanov poured himself a glass of Rye Kvas, a light malt, mixed with the sickening substance that the Soviets called "Vodka". Narmanov thought it tasted more like dirty pond water that stung your throat more than it did Vodka.  
  
The oak door in the back corner creaked. All three officers stood and saluted. As the door swung open, a man in his late forties, with black hair streaked gray, walked into the room. He had a regal stride about him, although his physical shape was anything but regal. He had to be at least thirty pounds overweight, which disgusted Narmanov. A leader should be in his prime at all times, not to show any vulnerability. If he couldn't run, he shouldn't lead.  
  
"Good morning, Comrade Stalin." Ivan chimed. Stalin gave Gradyenko a nod and took his seat at the front of the table.  
  
"Do you have some results to show me, Gradyenko?" Stalin pressed a button underneath the panel and turned in his swivel chair.  
  
"I do, indeed."  
  
Narmanov sat and watched as the back wall seemed to open wide, revealing a projection screen. The lights around them went dim and an image appeared on the screen…  
  
Bodies… hundreds of bodies. All their eyes and mouths wide as if gasping for oxygen, like they were drowned, or something. Narmanov's stomach turned. It was Torunn, one of the villages he was assigned to protect while he was with the Allied forces. He abandoned them, his people. He let them become guinea pigs to these monsters. Now, he was one of them. But, if he wasn't, he was as good as any of the people in the pictures. Thirty minutes of this mental torture passed. All the while, smiles beamed on the other three, basking in their greatness. Dimitry had to summon all the self-control he could to keep from lashing out at these people.  
  
Narmanov opened a folder in front of him, anything to stop looking at the pictures. He made a quick skim through the papers and found out that this was one of the first trial runs of the new Sarin nerve gas that the Soviets had designed. This stuff was worse than mustard gas. Tasteless, odorless, colorless, it literally liquefied the lungs and made the victim drown in himself. There were several sites that this was being tested in, mostly small villages in the Baltic States. Narmanov cringed. But wait, why does it say here that there are three manufacturing plants in full production and Stalin authorized only one of the three?  
  
After a few more agonizing minutes, the lights brightened again. Stalin slowly spun back around as the wall closed in on the screen, leaving only the wall and the embossed Soviet emblem. Stalin took out his pipe, inserted some tobacco, lit it and took a few puffs. Narmanov was disgusted once again at this man's feebleness.  
  
"Gradyenko," Stalin mumbled as he put out the match, "How long did it take the gas to work?"  
  
General Ivan looked at Dimitry, a look of distrust and concern on his face. "Is it safe to speak?"  
  
Stalin looked in the same direction Gradyenko did. Narmanov looked at Ivan with a scowl, and back at Stalin in defiance. Stalin gave a slight smirk. "Of course," he nodded to Gradyenko, "go on."  
  
Ivan looked down at his papers. With a hint of indifference, he recited "The kill time depends upon the weight of the subject, the children were killed in less than fifteen seconds, and the adults took longer, eighteen to forty-two seconds." He looked up with pride, and at Narmanov with that same distrustful scowl on his face. Narmanov wanted to throw the letter-opener at him.  
  
It was as if Nadya could read his mind. She quickly looked at Dimitry and shook her head. She looked back at Gradyenko and asked, "It doesn't add?"  
  
Ivan shuffled frantically through his papers and did some mathematics on paper, finally, he looked up and announced "Approximately eight hundred and forty."  
  
Nadya looked at Dimitry and winked. Gradyenko missed the signal. She was going in for the kill. "My intelligence shows eight hundred eighty- seven at the village. How do you account for this discrepancy?"  
  
Ivan leaned forward. "Inaccurate intelligence?"  
  
Stalin sat up, "Enough!" Both officers sat back. Narmanov smiled. "Begin full production of the gas."  
  
Gradyenko reveled in his self-acclaimed genius, "Already underway, Comrade Stalin." Stalin looked at Ivan with a bit of suspicion. Gradyenko returned the glare with a look of innocence.  
  
Stalin pushed another button under the table and the wall opened once again. This time, it revealed a map of Soviet progression through Europe. From what he could see, Narmanov inferred that the USSR had taken all the Baltic States, half of Poland, down through Belarus, the Ukraine, Romania and even touching a bit of Greece. The next strike point was to take the rest of Poland and Belarus. Stalin stood up and studied the map for a moment, then turned and looked at Narmanov.  
  
"Meet our newest officer, Lieutenant Dimitry Gregeorvich Narmanov." Stalin opened up a folder. Narmanov could see his mug shot clipped to a paper. It was the forged information he gave the naturalization services and the KGB. "According to this profile, you should prove useful."  
  
Gradyenko quickly looked at Narmanov and said "I would like too see that profile so I may ver…"  
  
"Give the Lieutenant something important to do." Stalin interrupted. Gradyenko kept the hostile glare on Narmanov. "That is all, Gradyenko." Ivan quickly snapped out of the glare and looked at Stalin nervously.  
  
"Forgive me, Comrade Stalin, but there is something else." Gradyenko stood up, reached toward Stalin's button keypad, and pushed a key. A small map of Torunn opened up on the screen. "We have been facing small resistance in a village in Torunn." Gradyenko pointed. "The Allies are blocking the roads into town here and here."  
  
"They are enemies of the people." Stalin muttered. He began to stand. "Destroy the town, and kill everyone in it." Narmanov held his breath, praying against being forced to do the job. Stalin looked at Nadya with a flirtatious glance. "Come, my dear. I have an assignment which requires your special… skills." Nadya smiled and stood. Stalin held her arm and guided her through the oak door that Iosef came in through.  
  
Gradyenko looked at them from behind in disgust. To Narmanov, he obviously desired to be the leader of the USSR. Not a possibility to Narmanov. He'll kill the bastard before letting Ivan take command.  
  
General Gradyenko took a seat. "Let's see how you can handle this." Ivan pointed. "Go at once to Torunn. Kill everything, and everyone." Gradyenko smiled. "No prisoners, no survivors."  
  
Narmanov was not happy to be taking orders from this pig, but if it was Stalin's orders…  
  
"That is all!" Gradyenko snapped.  
  
Narmanov stood, saluted, and turned on his heel for the door. It slid open like when he came in, and Alexsander was still there. The man he pointed the other gun at, though, was not.  
  
"Good meeting, sir?" Alexsander asked.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Narmanov walked back into the elevator; maybe he could use a good night's sleep with Zofia tonight.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
February 24, 1941  
  
A small village in Torunn, Latvia  
  
0520 Hours  
  
Narmanov sat on a felled tree, observing the distant landscapes. He normally enjoyed times like these. Times where he could sit in peace and quiet, and simply enjoy the paintings God had made for his people. He enjoyed the beautiful white wisps of snow, kissing the fierce, jagged mountaintops. He loved the carpets of evergreen trees, clothing the mountains' bases. Most of all, he enjoyed the wonderful music that all the animals orchestrated, as if by some Master Hand.  
  
But, now was not a time for sightseeing. He was here on a mission. Dimitry's objective was to wait for his spy's signal, a green flare, so he can order the assault. Then, ruining the dusted mountains that he admired, the battalion of T-80s he had ordered to stand by would begin their death march through the hapless village. It upset Narmanov, knowing that most of the soldiers would be smiling, cheering and shouting their devotion to Iosef Stalin. Most of all, it tormented him to know that when all is said and done, the people he was once ordered to protect shall curse him for all eternity as he signed their death warrants. He shivered, but not from the cold. Dimitry Gregeorvich raised the binoculars to his eyes again.  
  
******  
  
A nothingness seemed to surround Benjamin Stark as he moved through it. It was hard for him to describe in words. It was dark, yet it occurred to him that light and dark meant nothing in this nothing. He wanted to struggle, but he could not feel, or see his arms… or legs… or body… or even the tip of his nose. He was nothing. This was nothing, but he could not figure out why his conscience was still talking to him. His thoughts still flowed steadily like when he was with body.  
  
Am I dead? Is this heaven? Ben thought. He tried to look to the left, searching for his companions, but none could be found. He was about to pay for that attempt.  
  
A great flash of blinding light startled this non-person. And with the light, came pain. Great, searing pain, like being stabbed in the heart with an electric cattle prod, coursed through him. Ben tried to scream, but no words came out. He tried to flinch, but his eyes were not there to blink. He tried to fight, but had nothing to fight with. The nothingness was torturing him.  
  
Not heaven, perhaps the other direction. Ben considered. The nothingness seemed to share the sentiment by generating another pulse of agonizing pain, and another, and another. Multicolored wisps of light flowed and swirled around him. It would have been quite beautiful if Ben could take his concentration off canceling the pain and focusing on some sightseeing. But, the pain was too great to try. His torture continued… harder, faster, stronger.  
  
*****  
  
Smoke. Green smoke. Streaming from the center of the village like some alien fire was brewing. Dimitry lowered his binoculars. Checking his watch, he began to cry a little. It was time for him to prove his faith to that bastard, Stalin. He removed a hand radio from his belt and raised it to his lips.  
  
"You have the signal, 8th Wing. Do your job and get it over with." Narmanov ordered flatly.  
  
"Yes, sir." Came the crackled reply. Narmanov sat back down and began to pray.  
  
Please, God, make it painless for these innocent people.  
  
Overhead, he heard the buzz of the YAK strike planes starting their strafing run. Their targets, naturally, were the vast amounts of fuel that the militia forces left behind. This area was soon to be an Allied station, which was why the strikes were nessicary. Narmanov learned this only a few hours ago, far after the meeting. Zofia blurted this information out after the two of them had gotten heartily drunk and slept together on her office floor. Dimitry still had the headache to prove it. He never had a taste for coffee, and to him, drugs indicated a dependence on chemicals to survive - another flaw in man.  
  
The planes made a terrifying nose-dive at the scattered fuel stations. Their machine guns barked with viciousness that a man should only have to hear but once. Then, all hell broke loose.  
  
In a devastating chain reaction, station after station erupted into vast waves of flame and smoke, the technicians running in fear, and in flame. Many of the villagers began to run north, towards the mountains. Some were running at the green flare, hoping to find the traitor that did this to them. As predicted by Narmanov, the militia assisted the villagers by doing the latter. They searched high and low, through burning wreckage and nearby forest. Men with M-4s or AK-47s swept the area. They finally found their prey, as Dimitry had hoped. They threw the spy into the burning debris of one of the late fuel stations. He never came out.  
  
Narmanov couldn't help but groan with grief, but his mission was still his. And he had to follow his orders. He took a look through his binoculars to assess the damage. The flames had spread now, surrounding the majority of villagers, trapping them. The people who had tried to flee up the mountains had either been captured or assassinated by Narmanov's snipers perched in the trees, which were also in flames now.  
  
He looked back at one of the militia stations. He would have overlooked this, but seeing a strange hue of blue in all these red flames was peculiar to him. He focused on that light as he grabbed his radio.  
  
"This is Lt. Narmanov," he announced grimly, "Air strike was a success. Mop-up team: Move in." And with that, the tanks groaned to life and Dimitry saw them make their destructive trails down the mountain. Narmanov looked back at that hue and concentrated there.  
  
*****  
  
The pain was nearly unbearable now. Ben just couldn't take much more. The pulses came in what seemed to be tenths of seconds. The colors continued to swirl, but they filled in the dark nothing that once dominated this place. In front of him, where the swirls originated, was a white circle of light. It grew perpetually as the pulses continued to torture Stark to death. How he longed for an end, and that end seemed to be in that circle of light. He wanted to reach, but his bodilessness forbade him, as well as drove him mad. His thought, his soul, his being was centered on getting to that light.  
  
The nothingness must have heard him, then. For the circle suddenly threw itself at him, surrounding him in its white light. The pain was gone, but a new one arose. Within a flash, the light disappeared and he could see the world again. Everything became clear to him – the trees, the mountains, the fire, and the ground that he was about to hit really hard.  
  
*****  
  
Narmanov quickly removed his binoculars, breathed into them and tried to clean them off. There's no way that that could have happened. Three children, suddenly appearing as if fallen from a building? There's no building within two hundred feet of that area! He looked again. Yet, they were still there. The tallest one got up first, the shortest came second. The tall one went and tended to the one who didn't get up yet. That wasn't much of a threat to Narmanov. So, he concentrated on the short one. About five feet and nine inches, brown hair, brown eyes, he didn't seem like much, of course if it wasn't for the two Glock forty-five semi automatic pistols in either holster, the interesting looking grenade and the strange box he had attached to his belt. They had better not be a threat to my success Dimitry thought. And he began his descent to their position to make sure that they weren't.  
  
*****  
  
Ben stood and dusted himself off. He was freezing cold, which wasn't much of a surprise to him seeing that he was covered in snow. He looked to his right and saw Josh Bitterman trying to revive Paul Phearson. Ben ran to them.  
  
"Josh, what the hell was that?" Ben hollered over the rumbling of fire.  
  
"I don't know, Ru! But Paul ain't waking up!"  
  
Ben rushed to Paul and got on his knees, looking at the body before him. He checked Paul's pulse. Nothing.  
  
No… NO! Ben checked Paul's heart, still nothing. Wake up, damnit! Ben tried to begin CPR, but it did not help. Wake up! Ben activated his EVA and tried to use it as some sort of aid, but it told him exactly what he already knew. Paul was dead; his whole nervous system was fried and shut down.  
  
"He must have succumbed to whatever hells we went through, man." Josh looked at his fallen friend.  
  
Ben stood up. "That's the second friend I've lost."  
  
"I'm too good to make it a third," Josh joked, or at least tried to, "remember that."  
  
Stark was ready to start grieving, but a sudden thud from behind suggested otherwise. Then a whole series of thuds surrounding Ben and Josh. They looked up. On a near ledge was a figure, laying prone, with two pistols firing with the precision that Ben had thought only he had had.  
  
"Save the funeral for later, Ben!" Josh began to sprint.  
  
Ben nodded and began to follow Josh, but the fires caught his eye. He turned and looked through the inferno.  
  
Civilians – so many civilians – Men, women and children. The civilians had to come first. Ben looked at the corpse. Paul would have wanted it this way. Worry about the killer later, Josh has it taken care of. Ben began to run at the flames.  
  
*****  
  
Damn! Narmanov thought. His grief had made him weak and inaccurate. That is what made him miss. Now, his clips were empty and one of the teenagers was charging after him, while the other was running to save the civilians. He scrambled to his feet and began to climb the ledge. That tall one was fast! It wouldn't be long before they had to scuffle; Narmanov had to retreat to his half-track and get out. No one was to know of his betrayal of the Allied forces.  
  
He continued to climb, with the enemy (it was interesting to him how he called this child the enemy now) close behind. Narmanov grabbed one of his empty clips and threw it at the boy. The magazine struck him right in the forehead, but instead of falling like a normal child would, this one howled with rage and simply climbed faster. Narmanov began to get worried, but the ledge and his refuge were only a few feet away, and so was the enemy.  
  
*****  
  
Ben stopped at the wall of flame between him and the civilian militia. He looked at the wall and decided it was worth a shot to leap through them. He covered his outer shirt with snow and covered his head with it. Then, with a tremendous war-whoop, leapt through the devil's fingers. He rolled to make sure that his clothes were unscathed, and then stood. He made a cup with his hands, put them to his mouth and called to the people.  
  
"Hey! Over here!" He began to wave frantically. The civilians without weapons turned, saw him, and ran to him. "English?" He asked. One man stepped forward.  
  
"Who you?"  
  
"No time! The fire here is not that strong!" Ben pointed to the flames. "If you cover yourselves in snow and jump, you can make it through!" The man quickly translated, some of the people had skeptical looks on their faces, but others were not in the mood to wait, and they jumped. Mothers threw their children through the flames. Husbands covered their wives. Brothers and sisters huddled as they leapt. Then, all but the militia and the translator remained.  
  
"Thank much for help from you!" the translator babbled, then he went through.  
  
The militia began to follow suit, but Ben noticed a look on their faces, one of fear, in the direction of the mountains. As the rest of the battered people got through, Ben being the last of them, Stark looked towards the direction that the people showed concern about. His jaw dropped.  
  
Tanks, hundreds of them, racing through trees, rocks and homes in their direction.  
  
"Run!" Ben shouted, "Run your ass off and don't stop!" The civilians, and the translator, did as they were told, but the militia stayed.  
  
"Didn't you hear me?" Ben shook his fists. "I said run, dammit!"  
  
"You command now!" A rifleman stepped forward. "We defend village and die for our people!"  
  
Ben spun towards the tanks. There was a bridge separating them from the wave of death, but the tanks had a better chance of getting there.  
  
Well, better to have little chance than none at all. "All right, everyone come here. I have a plan."  
  
*****  
  
Oh, no. You're not getting away that easily. Josh thought as he reached the top of the ledge. When he stood on solid ground, he saw the man in the white camouflage start sprinting towards a monstrous half-track.  
  
And if you think you'll kill me like that, you have another thing coming!  
  
Josh opened up his holster and withdrew his SIG. Taking careful aim, he fired at the doors and tires. He destroyed the lock on the driver's-side door, popped the passenger's-side tire, but missed the other tire and door. No matter, though. He had the man's attention. The pistol-sniper stood dead in his tracks and turned. Josh, in the mood for a good fight, threw his SIG in between them and stood still.  
  
"Hope you're ready for an A-1 ass-whipping." Josh called.  
  
"Who are you?" The man called back.  
  
"I'm fear."  
  
"Fear can easily be conquered."  
  
"Not when fear gets pissed." Josh looked at the pistol he threw, "Or when fear has a gun."  
  
With that, the man began to run for the SIG. Josh was two steps ahead of him, but still wanted a fight. He crouched and began a sweep-kick, knocking the gun away and sending the assassin head over heels. While the man was mid-air and upside down, Josh, still spinning, twirled upward and thrust his fist into the man's stomach, sending him screaming to the ground. The man landed with a sickening thud, but he didn't last there long. The killer curled himself into a ball with his back facing the ground, placed his hands, palm down, on the ground and sprung back up again. Josh tried to punch the person, but the man successfully blocked, twisted Josh's arm, and, still holding his arm, kicked Josh in the head and brought his heal down into the back of Josh's skull. Josh landed, face- first, into the snow. The man gave a grunt and ran for the half-track. Bitterman crawled, still dazed, to his SIG. He reached it, but only in time to see the half-track speed away into the distance. Josh didn't bother to fire any rounds, the sniper was too far away to hit. Instead, he laid flat on his back, exhausted, staring into the smoke-filled sky.  
  
*****  
  
Ben led the militia around the circle of flames through a nearby forest. He looked behind him at the men, and he saw that they were all dressed in snow camouflage. Some had grenades, others did not. All of them had guns, however. He didn't really have a plan, but it began to form as he ran. Maybe the bridge wouldn't be the target, after all.  
  
"All right! Everyone, when we get out of the woods, start covering yourselves with snow!" Ben hollered. That would keep the thermal imaging at bay, and make them nearly invisible to anyone.  
  
They scrambled out of the forest, right in front of the bridge that the tanks needed to cross. As ordered, the men fell to the ground and began to dig, tossing flurries of snow over them. Ben did the same, only more frantically due to the fact that he was wearing the urban colors of gray and black. The tanks had about ten minutes till they arrived at their position. The men were buried in two. They were one with the snow.  
  
Ben could hear the tanks rumble audibly now. He dared to look up and see where they were and find out exactly what they were up against. He counted about ten T-80s and several troop trucks. By all accounts, Ben wanted one of those troop trucks to evacuate the civilians.  
  
"When I give the signal, we go for the tanks and try to hijack them." Ben whispered.  
  
"What!" The man behind him almost shouted, "We'll never get in!"  
  
"Trust me," Ben ordered, "There will be a gunner." A collage of "Yes sir"s and "Good plan"s sounded behind him. He hushed them quickly and put his head back down.  
  
Several minutes later, the tanks were so close that he could feel the heat from the engines. He looked up, and saw that he was under one of them.  
  
Better to be under the engine than under the tread. Ben thought to himself.  
  
"Get ready," Ben whispered. The same orchestra of "Yes" followed.  
  
*****  
  
"Lt. Narmanov!" Crackled a voice through Dimitry's radio. "Respond, please!" He picked it up and pressed the transmit button.  
  
"Yes, commander."  
  
"Sir," the tank commander began, "There's no sign of any militia or civilian presence in the area. I think they made a run for the ledge that you are stationed on."  
  
Narmanov swore at himself for leaving the ledge. He would have been able to stop the civilians. "The ledge has been taken, I'm in the Red Bear and making my way around."  
  
"Negative! I can take care of it, sir."  
  
"There's an unforseen variable down there that I must take care of."  
  
"Unforseen variable, sir?" The commander questioned, "I think we can take care of any unforseen..." then static.  
  
"Damn!" Narmanov threw the radio out his window. Those children are more dangerous than he thought. He changed his direction back to the Ukraine base and floored the accelerator.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
February 24, 1941  
  
A small village in Torunn, Latvia  
  
0520 Hours  
  
Narmanov sat on a felled tree, observing the distant landscapes. He normally enjoyed times like these. Times where he could sit in peace and quiet, and simply enjoy the paintings God had made for his people. He enjoyed the beautiful white wisps of snow, kissing the fierce, jagged mountaintops. He loved the carpets of evergreen trees, clothing the mountains' bases. Most of all, he enjoyed the wonderful music that all the animals orchestrated, as if by some Master Hand.  
  
But, now was not a time for sightseeing. He was here on a mission. Dimitry's objective was to wait for his spy's signal, a green flare, so he can order the assault. Then, ruining the dusted mountains that he admired, the battalion of T-80s he had ordered to stand by would begin their death march through the hapless village. It upset Narmanov, knowing that most of the soldiers would be smiling, cheering and shouting their devotion to Iosef Stalin. Most of all, it tormented him to know that when all is said and done, the people he was once ordered to protect shall curse him for all eternity as he signed their death warrants. He shivered, but not from the cold. Dimitry Gregeorvich raised the binoculars to his eyes again.  
  
******  
  
A nothingness seemed to surround Benjamin Stark as he moved through it. It was hard for him to describe in words. It was dark, yet it occurred to him that light and dark meant nothing in this nothing. He wanted to struggle, but he could not feel or see his arms… or legs… or body… or even the tip of his nose. He was nothing. This was nothing, but he could not figure out why his conscience was still talking to him. His thoughts still flowed steadily like when he was with body.  
  
Am I dead? Is this heaven? Ben thought. He tried to look to the left, searching for his companions, but none could be found. He was about to pay for that attempt.  
  
A great flash of blinding light startled the non-person. And with the light, came pain. Great, searing pain, like being stabbed in the heart with an electric cattle prod, coursed through him. Ben tried to scream, but no words came out. He tried to flinch, but his eyes were not there to blink. He tried to fight, but had nothing to fight with. The nothingness was torturing him.  
  
Not heaven, perhaps the other direction. Ben considered. The nothingness seemed to share the sentiment by generating another pulse of agonizing pain, and another, and another. Multicolored wisps of light flowed and swirled around him. It would have been quite beautiful if Ben could take his concentration off canceling the pain and focusing on some sightseeing. But, the pain was too great to try. His torture continued… harder, faster, stronger.  
  
*****  
  
Smoke. Green smoke. Streaming from the center of the village like some alien fire was brewing. Dimitry lowered his binoculars. Checking his watch, he began to cry a little. It was time for him to prove his faith to that bastard, Stalin. He removed a hand radio from his belt and raised it to his lips.  
  
"You have the signal, 8th Wing. Do your job and get it over with." Narmanov ordered flatly.  
  
"Yes, sir." Came the crackled reply. Narmanov sat back down and began to pray.  
  
Please, God, make it painless for these innocent people.  
  
Overhead, he heard the buzz of the YAK strike planes starting their strafing run. Their targets, naturally, were the vast amounts of fuel that the militia forces left behind. This area was soon to be an Allied station, which was why the strikes were nessicary. Narmanov learned this only a few hours ago, far after the meeting. Zofia blurted this information out after the two of them had gotten heartily drunk and slept together on her office floor. Dimitry still had the headache to prove it. He never had a taste for coffee, and to him, drugs indicated a dependence on chemicals to survive - another flaw in man.  
  
The planes made a terrifying nose-dive at the scattered fuel stations. Their machine guns barked with a viciousness that a man should only have to hear but once. Then, all hell broke loose.  
  
In a devastating chain reaction, station after station erupted into vast waves of flame and smoke, the technicians running in fear, and in flame. Many of the villagers began to run north, towards the mountains. Some were running at the green flare, hoping to find the traitor that did this to them. As predicted by Narmanov, the militia assisted the villagers by doing the latter. They searched high and low, through burning wreckage and nearby forest. Men with M-4s or AK-47s swept the area. They finally found their prey, as Dimitry had hoped. They threw the spy into the burning debris of one of the late fuel stations. He never came out.  
  
Narmanov couldn't help but groan with grief, but his mission was still his. And he had to follow his orders. He took a look through his binoculars to assess the damage. The flames had spread now, surrounding the majority of villagers, trapping them. The people who had tried to flee up the mountains had either been captured or assassinated by Narmanov's snipers perched in the trees, which were also in flames now.  
  
He looked back at one of the militia stations. He would have overlooked this, but seeing a strange hue of blue in all these red flames was peculiar to him. He focused on that light as he grabbed his radio.  
  
"This is Lt. Narmanov," he announced grimly, "Air strike was a success. Mop-up team: Move in." And with that, the tanks groaned to life and Dimitry saw them make their destructive trails down the mountain. Narmanov looked back at that hue and concentrated there.  
  
*****  
  
The pain was nearly unbearable now. Ben just couldn't take much more. The pulses came in what seemed to be tenths of seconds. The colors continued to swirl, but they filled in the dark nothing that once dominated this place. In front of him, where the swirls originated, was a white circle of light. It grew perpetually as the pulses continued to torture Stark to death. How he longed for an end, and that end seemed to be in that circle of light. He wanted to reach, but his bodilessness forbade him, as well as drove him mad. His thought, his soul, his being was centered on getting to that light.  
  
The nothingness must have heard him, then. For the circle suddenly threw itself at him, surrounding him in its white light. The pain was gone, but a new one arose. Within a flash, the light disappeared and he could see the world again. Everything became clear to him – the trees, the mountains, the fire, and the ground that he was about to hit really hard.  
  
*****  
  
Narmanov quickly removed his binoculars, breathed into them and tried to clean them off. There's no way that that could have happened. Three children, suddenly appearing as if fallen from a building? There's no building within two hundred feet of that area! He looked again. Yet, they were still there. The tallest one got up first, the shortest came second. The tall one went and tended to the one who didn't get up yet. That wasn't much of a threat to Narmanov. So, he concentrated on the short one. About five feet and nine inches, brown hair, brown eyes, he didn't seem like much, of course if it wasn't for the two Glock forty-five semi automatic pistols in either holster, the interesting looking grenade and the strange box he had attached to his belt. They had better not be a threat to my success Dimitry thought. And he began his descent to their position to make sure that they weren't.  
  
*****  
  
Ben stood and dusted himself off. He was freezing cold, which wasn't much of a surprise to him seeing that he was covered in snow. He looked to his right and saw Josh Bitterman trying to revive Paul Phearson. Ben ran to them.  
  
"Josh, what the hell was that?" Ben hollered over the rumbling of fire.  
  
"I don't know, Ru! But Paul ain't waking up!"  
  
Ben rushed to Paul and got on his knees, looking at the body before him. He checked Paul's pulse. Nothing.  
  
No… NO! Ben checked Paul's heart, still nothing. Wake up, damnit! Ben tried to begin CPR, but it did not help. Wake up! Ben activated his EVA and tried to use it as some sort of aid, but it told him exactly what he already knew. Paul was dead; his whole nervous system was fried and shut down.  
  
"He must have succumbed to whatever hells we went through, man." Josh looked at his fallen friend.  
  
Ben stood up. "That's the second friend I've lost."  
  
"I'm too good to make it a third," Josh joked, or at least tried to, "remember that."  
  
Stark was ready to start grieving, but a sudden thud from behind suggested otherwise. Then a whole series of thuds surrounding Ben and Josh. They looked up. On a near ledge was a figure, laying prone, with two pistols firing with the precision that Ben had thought only he had had.  
  
"Save the funeral for later, Ben!" Josh began to sprint.  
  
Ben nodded and began to follow Josh, but the fires caught his eye. He turned and looked through the inferno.  
  
Civilians – so many civilians – Men, women and children. The civilians had to come first. Ben looked at the corpse. Paul would have wanted it this way. Worry about the killer later, Josh has it taken care of. Ben began to run at the flames.  
  
*****  
  
Damn! Narmanov thought. His grief had made him weak and inaccurate. That is what made him miss. Now, his clips were empty and one of the teenagers was charging after him, while the other was running to save the civilians. He scrambled to his feet and began to climb the ledge. That tall one was fast! It wouldn't be long before they had to scuffle; Narmanov had to retreat to his half-track and get out. No one was to know of his betrayal of the Allied forces.  
  
He continued to climb, with the enemy (it was interesting to him how he called this child the enemy now) close behind. Narmanov grabbed one of his empty clips and threw it at the boy. The magazine struck him right in the forehead, but instead of falling like a normal child would, this one howled with rage and simply climbed faster. Narmanov began to get worried, but the ledge and his refuge were only a few feet away, and so was the enemy.  
  
*****  
  
Ben stopped at the wall of flame between him and the civilian militia. He looked at the wall and decided it was worth a shot to leap through them. He covered his outer shirt with snow and covered his head with it. Then, with a tremendous war-whoop, leapt through the devil's fingers. He rolled to make sure that his clothes were unscathed, and then stood. He made a cup with his hands, put them to his mouth and called to the people.  
  
"Hey! Over here!" He began to wave frantically. The civilians without weapons turned, saw him, and ran to him. "English?" He asked. One man stepped forward.  
  
"Who you?"  
  
"No time! The fire here is not that strong!" Ben pointed to the flames. "If you cover yourselves in snow and jump, you can make it through!" The man quickly translated, some of the people had skeptical looks on their faces, but others were not in the mood to wait, and they jumped. Mothers threw their children through the flames. Husbands covered their wives. Brothers and sisters huddled as they leapt. Then, all but the militia and the translator remained.  
  
"Thank much for help from you!" the translator babbled, then he went through.  
  
The militia began to follow suit, but Ben noticed a look on their faces, one of fear, in the direction of the mountains. As the rest of the battered people got through, Ben being the last of them, Stark looked towards the direction that the people showed concern about. His jaw dropped.  
  
Tanks, a platoon of them, racing through trees, rocks and homes, in their direction.  
  
"Run!" Ben shouted, "Run your ass off and don't stop!" The civilians, and the translator, did as they were told, but the militia stayed.  
  
"Didn't you hear me?" Ben shook his fists. "I said run, dammit!"  
  
"You command now!" A rifleman stepped forward. "We defend village and die for our people!"  
  
Ben spun towards the tanks. There was a bridge separating them from the wave of death, but the tanks had a better chance of getting there.  
  
Well, better to have little chance than none at all. "All right, everyone come here. I have a plan."  
  
*****  
  
Oh, no. You're not getting away that easily. Josh thought as he reached the top of the ledge. When he stood on solid ground, he saw the man in the white camouflage start sprinting towards a monstrous half-track.  
  
And if you think you'll kill me like that, you have another thing coming!  
  
Josh opened up his holster and withdrew his SIG. Taking careful aim, he fired at the doors and tires. He destroyed the lock on the driver's-side door, popped the passenger's-side tire, but missed the other tire and door. No matter, though. He had the man's attention. The pistol-sniper stood dead in his tracks and turned. Josh, in the mood for a good fight, threw his SIG in between them and stood still.  
  
"Hope you're ready for an A-1 ass-whipping." Josh called.  
  
"Who are you?" The man called back.  
  
"I'm fear."  
  
"Fear can easily be conquered."  
  
"Not when fear gets pissed." Josh looked at the pistol he threw, "Or when fear has a gun."  
  
With that, the man began to run for his SIG. Josh was two steps ahead of him, but still wanted a fight. He crouched and began a sweep-kick, kicking the gun away and knocking the man's legs out from under him. While the man was mid-air and upside down, Josh, still spinning, twirled upward and thrust his fist into the man's stomach, sending him screaming to the ground. The man landed with a sickening thud, but he didn't last there long. The killer curled himself into a ball with his back facing the ground, placed his hands, palm down, on the ground and sprung back up again. Josh tried to punch the person, but the man successfully blocked, twisted Josh's arm, and, still holding his arm, kicked Josh in the head and brought his heel down into the back of Josh's skull. Josh landed, face- first, into the snow. The man gave a grunt and ran for the half-track. Bitterman crawled, still dazed, to his SIG. He reached it, but only in time to see the half-track speed away into the distance. Josh didn't bother to fire any rounds, the sniper was too far away to hit. Instead, he laid flat on his back, exhausted, staring into the smoke-filled sky.  
  
*****  
  
Ben led the militia around the circle of flames through a nearby forest. He looked behind him at the men, and he saw that they were all dressed in snow camouflage. Some had grenades, others did not. All of them had guns, however. He didn't really have a plan, but it began to form as he ran. Maybe the bridge wouldn't be the target, after all.  
  
"All right! Everyone, when we get out of the woods, start covering yourselves with snow!" Ben hollered. That would keep the thermal imaging at bay, and make them nearly invisible to anyone.  
  
They scrambled out of the forest, right in front of the bridge that the tanks needed to cross. As ordered, the men fell to the ground and began to dig, tossing flurries of snow over them. Ben did the same, only more frantically due to the fact that he was wearing the urban colors of gray and black. The tanks had about ten minutes till they arrived at their position. The men were buried in two. They were one with the snow.  
  
Ben could hear the tanks rumble audibly now. He dared to look up and see where they were and find out exactly what they were up against. He counted about ten T-80s and several troop trucks. By all accounts, Ben wanted one of those troop trucks to evacuate the civilians.  
  
"When I give the signal, we go for the tanks and try to hijack them." Ben whispered.  
  
"What!" The man behind him almost shouted, "We'll never get in!"  
  
"Trust me," Ben ordered, "There will be a gunner." A collage of "Yes sir"s and "Good plan"s sounded behind him. He hushed them quickly and put his head back down.  
  
Several minutes later, the tanks were so close that he could feel the heat from the engines. He looked up, and saw that he was under one of them.  
  
Better to be under the engine than under the tread. Ben thought to himself.  
  
"Get ready," Ben whispered. The same orchestra of "Yes" followed.  
  
*****  
  
"Lt. Narmanov!" Crackled a voice through Dimitry's radio. "Respond, please!" He picked it up and pressed the transmit button.  
  
"Yes, commander."  
  
"Sir," the tank commander began, "There's no sign of any militia or civilian presence in the area. I think they made a run for the ledge that you are stationed on."  
  
Narmanov swore at himself for leaving the ledge. He would have been able to stop the civilians. "The ledge has been taken, I'm in the Red Bear and making my way around."  
  
"Negative! I can take care of it, sir."  
  
"There's an unforseen variable down there that I must take care of."  
  
"Unforseen variable, sir?" The commander questioned, "I think we can take care of any unforseen..." then static.  
  
"Damn!" Narmanov threw the radio out his window. Those children were more dangerous than he thought. He changed his direction back to the Ukraine base and floored the accelerator.  
  
*****  
  
Ben looked at the tank commander he had just dispatched. The cadaver's clothes were covered in medals, badges and insignias. Most of the insignias were of the Soviet hammer and scythe. Soviet? Ben thought. He was expecting the scorpion tail of the Brotherhood. What the hell is going on, here? Ben discarded the body over the side of the tank. He withdrew his Glock pistols and hopped into the tank. There was the gunner, far to busy with the ambush of rebels to notice, and the driver, who did notice, but not in time to stop Ben from inserting two lead capsules into his head. The gunner brandished an AK-47 and began firing in the tank. Ben leapt behind a compartment and hid for a moment. The gunfire was frantic for several seconds then stopped. But, Ben did not hear the clicking of a changing magazine. Ben left the compartment, climbed to the turret and found the gunner – dead from ricocheting bullets.  
  
One of the militia jumped into the steel beast. He took the dead body and threw it out like garbage. He took a seat in the gunner's chair.  
  
"Do you know how to work a tank?" Ben hollered up to the newfound gunner. The slavic smiled at him and pushed several levers. The turret rotated towards the nearest enemy tank and fired. The enemy transformed into an inferno of twisted metal and smoke. The gunner gave a hearty laugh that just had to make Ben smile.  
  
"Tell everyone to keep the supply trucks intact!" Ben ordered. The gunner peeked his head out of the hatch and screamed in Polish, Russian and Sweedish. Shouts and screams came back. The gunner climbed back down. "One left! On the right!"  
  
"Got it!" Ben climbed out of the tank, quickly replaced by another person. He dashed for the deserted truck. All around him were shells screaming and explosions of tanks and men left and right. Ben leapt into the truck, turned the ignition, and hit the accelerator with all his might. The militia poured into the truck and gave covering fire at the remaining Soviet troops. Ben steered the truck and made a beeline for the cavern where the civilians were held.  
  
*****  
  
Josh picked himself up and brushed himself off. Coward. He thought at the stranger. He looked over the ledge and saw the carnage. Oh my god. But, he saw that half the carnage was inflicted on the tanks that were attempting an incursion. Josh laughed. Only Ben would have that much balls. Josh picked up a pair of binoculars left by the sniper and peered through them. He saw a supply truck speeding toward the ledge below him. He stared hard. It was Ben driving the truck. That's my boy! Josh thought as he made his way down the ledge.  
  
  
  
Chapter 3  
  
February 25, 1941  
  
London, England – The Repositioned Allied Headquarters  
  
1234 Hours  
  
What a dump! Stavros thought to himself. He stared at the peeling paint and creaking floorboards. I can't believe that we've had to resort to this bastard roach motel!  
  
The Allies were forced back through Greece, Germany, Italy and some of France. The Red Machine just couldn't be stopped. They needed Narmanov back. As much as General Stavros hated to admit it, they needed Narmanov back. No one else could anticipate the Soviet movement quite as well as Narmanov.  
  
The door opened near Stavros with a sickening creak. Von Esling entered. Stavros nodded and went to sit down. Von Esling grabbed Nikkos' arm.  
  
"Not there, Nikkos." He grumbled.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
General Von Esling grabbed a pitcher of water and placed it on the chair. The chair crumbled. Stavros grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room, leaving a gaping hole in one of the walls.  
  
"Damn it!" Stavros snarled. "Why do we have to scurry about like rats in a fire? Why do we have to move here? We are dignified generals, Gunter! We are not to live and work like this!"  
  
"I know, my friend," Von Esling reclined on a stable seat. "But we have to make do until we find a way to stop Stalin."  
  
Stavros gave up on sitting on a chair, and resorted to sitting on the table. "And when will we find out?" He looked at a map. "There's very little Europe left."  
  
Von Esling studied the same map. "We'll just have to find a more formidable opponent." He looked across the Atlantic. "And the US still refuses to help."  
  
Stavros grabbed the map and tore the Western Hemisphere clean off. "Damn the United States! Damn General Carville! Damn this whole God-Awful mess!"  
  
"Calm down Nikkos! You're not helping anything!" Von Esling grabbed Stavros' shoulders. Suddenly the door flew wide open and slammed against the wall, leaving yet another hole. Both generals drew their pistols and aimed them at the door.  
  
"Sirs!" It was an Allied marine, judging from the accent, he was Croatian.  
  
"Djuric! What the hell do you want?" Stavros hollered.  
  
"We just received a communiqué, with video, of a recent incident at Latvia."  
  
"Nobody cares."  
  
"I think you might, sir." Captain Djuric ran for the projector and placed the 8mm film inside. He turned off the lights and flipped the switch.  
  
What they saw astounded the generals. Two teenagers, no older than 18, took out a whole Red Tank division, took command of a small militia, and thwarted a Soviet effort. All within minutes!  
  
"Who are they, Captain?"  
  
"One witness says the small one's name is Benjamin Stark. Nobody knows the other one."  
  
"Where is the other one in the film?" Von Esling asked.  
  
"Yes sir, one moment." Djuric accelerated the film and stopped. "Here he is."  
  
There they saw the other, a taller, more built teen, in a viscous fistfight with someone very familiar. Stavros ran for the lights and turned them on.  
  
"I don't care who they are, or where they come from, Captain. Find them and bring them here." He looked at the images again. "And you may need Captain Adams as well."  
  
"Yes sir!" Djuric saluted and left.  
  
"Nikkos," Von Esling turned around.  
  
"Yes?" Stavros replied.  
  
"I think we just found our formidable opponent." Von Esling donned his jacket and walked out of the conference room.  
  
*****  
  
Ben, Josh and the militia were located a couple miles away from the devastated village. Ben and Josh were standing several feet from the whole militia, who stood at complete attention in reverence for the commanders who saved their lives. Ben didn't share the reverence.  
  
"I don't know how much more sense I can make for you, Ivan Stepalavich Dirstov!" Ben was getting irritated. "Where is the nearest GDI base?"  
  
"And I still don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Stark!" Ivan was getting just as upset. "There is no such thing as this GDI that you talk about!"  
  
"Dammit, Ivan!" Ben kicked dirt at the militia soldier. "You're either a moron, or a spy, or a propagandist, or all of the above, because there's a damned few who don't know what the GDI is!"  
  
Ivan turned around and shouted a few words of Russian at his compatriots, who returned blank stares and shrugs. "No one here has heard of the GDI or Brotherhood of Nod, Benjamin. I'm sorry."  
  
Ben growled. "Listen, I'll make it simple for you. There are two armies at war. There's the GDI, an alliance of nations…"  
  
"You mean the Allies!" Ivan interrupted.  
  
"No." Ben snapped, "Listen. Then there's a terrorist organization called the Brotherhood of Nod who's trying to enslave mankind and torture Men, Women and Girlfriends." Josh, who was alongside Ben, slapped Ben upside the head. Ben looked at Josh, who had a "Don't go there" look in his eyes.  
  
Ivan sighed. "Listen, there is only one war going on… the Allies and the Sov…"  
  
"OK, which one is plotting evil global domination?" Ben interrupted again.  
  
"The Soviets." Ivan answered.  
  
"All right, those are the guys we bitch-slapped."  
  
"If 'Bitch-slapped' means defeated, then yes."  
  
"And the Allies are trying to stop the Soviets?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then take me to the Allied headquarters." Ben looked back at the village.  
  
"I'd like to, but…"  
  
"But what, Ivan?"  
  
"The Reds have taken everything up to France."  
  
"Ah," Josh scratched his goatee, "So we're a pimple on the face of the USSR?"  
  
"The backside is more the word I'd use."  
  
"Indeed." Josh looked back at the village as well, then he walked up to Ben and tapped his shoulder. Ben's face was hard and cold as ice.  
  
"What is it, buddy?" Josh asked.  
  
"Company." Ben peered out through the fire and smoke. Two Chinook transports were making their way over the mountains. Behind Ben, there were the crisp sounds of magazines being loaded, and breeches being set.  
  
"Ready for another round, comrade Stark?" Ivan asked. Ben turned and walked up to Ivan.  
  
"One thing, Ivan." Ben muttered.  
  
"Yes, sir?" Ivan asked.  
  
"Don't call me 'comrade'." Ben began to jog toward the ledges on his left.  
  
"Yes sir." Ivan followed, as well as Josh and the rest of the militia.  
  
*****  
  
"Five minutes!" Djuric called over the roar of the rotors.  
  
"Five minutes!" The SEALs repeated.  
  
I hope they think we're the good guys. The Captain thought. After seeing that film, he decided that violence was certainly not a good idea.  
  
"Dario?" A voice crackled over his headset.  
  
"Yes, Captain Adams." He replied.  
  
"We're going to land on the other side of the ledge, that way if they don't like our proposition, we'll find other ways to persuade them."  
  
"Take the lead, Adams."  
  
"Let's rock n' roll!"  
  
The sister Chinook roared ahead to the other side and began its descent. Several black figured men lowered ropes and rappelled down to the ground. Then the gunfire began.  
  
"Dammit! Djuric, get down here!" Adams shouted.  
  
"Pilot! Land this bitch now!" Djuric yelled. He turned to the SEALs. "We're moving now!"  
  
The SEALs, a procession of death, clipped rappelling ropes to rods braced to the helicopter, then they leapt, loading their MP5s on the way down. Djuric followed suit, but equipped an M-16.  
  
"Pilot, if we're not back in 15 minutes, inform General Von Esling that the targeted parties are hostile!"  
  
"Yes sir!"  
  
Dario jumped.  
  
*****  
  
"Stay in the rocks!" Ben shouted above the gunfire. Geez, these guys are good! Ben pondered. He leaned over a rock and put a bullet into one of the enemies' shoulders. Not great, but good.  
  
"I don't want to see any deaths!" Josh yelled, "We still don't know what side they're on!" He ran over to the opposite ledge and surveyed the land. There was the Chinook and one soldier. A soldier with stars on his arm. There was the commander!  
  
"Ben! I'll be right back!"  
  
"What?" Ben looked at Josh in surprise. A flurry of bullets and chipped stone spiraled over his head.  
  
"I gotta go train my left hook!" Josh started running for the commander.  
  
"Oh." Ben got back down and returned fire from wherever it came from. "Concentrate fire on the right!" Acknowledgments resounded all over the ledge.  
  
*****  
  
"Djuric! Where are you?" Adams barked into the receiver.  
  
"Two minutes!"  
  
"We don't have two minutes! These guys are good!"  
  
"Should we declare them hostile?"  
  
"They still don't know who we are, Dario."  
  
"I know."  
  
"They're not shooting to kill, just to scare or disable."  
  
"I'm not happy about this."  
  
"I know, but it's Von Esling's orders."  
  
"I hate orders."  
  
"Me too." Adams looked at the pass in front of the ledge and saw a figure running at full sprint at Adams' position. "I'm going off the air for a moment. I have something to take care of."  
  
"I'll be there ASAP."  
  
Adams turned off the radio and ran to meet the aggressor. Want to fight? I'm game. Adams thought.  
  
*****  
  
Josh's run became faster and faster, he was beginning to enjoy these little tête-à-têtes with the enemy. Perhaps they should be new rules of war. Forget the soldiers; let the commanders beat the hell out of each other.  
  
His opponent leapt in the air and let out his right leg in an attempt to kick him. Josh got to the ground and slid right under the attack. He then sprang up and spun around to backhand Adams. Adams ducked and thrust a right fist into Josh's kidney. Josh howled, but grabbed Adams' shoulders and kneed Adams in the chest. Adams growled, and the growl was what concerned Josh.  
  
Waitaminnute he thought. Who is this? There's too much clothing to tell, but this guy isn't a – Adams lifted Josh by the waist over his shoulder and thrust him into the ground. Josh brought his legs to his chest and kicked out, sending Adams in a front flip to the ground, back first. Josh leapt on top of Adams, pinning him. Josh removed Adams' mask. Something was definitely wrong.  
  
Adams wasn't a he, he was a woman!  
  
*****  
  
"We're low on ammunition!" Stepalavich screamed. "We won't last much longer!"  
  
"Damn," Stark stopped firing to think for a moment. "Everyone call in!" Ben heard the name of every militiaman. All were accounted for. No casualties. They're not even trying! He thought. Then he heard firing from another direction. He looked to his right and saw another whole soldier platoon, like the one they were fighting now. He decided to take a gamble.  
  
"Hold your fire!" He shouted.  
  
The guns on both sides silenced. Everyone's eyes were on Ben, waiting for the next command. Ben stood and began to walk down to the enemy side.  
  
*****  
  
"It seems you're in trouble, cutie." Josh smiled. Adams sighed and rolled her eyes.  
  
"I hate it when boys are on top." She did as Josh did, brought her knees to her chest and kicked out, sending Josh flying. Josh got back up and ran for Adams, she drew her guns and aimed at Josh, who came to a skidding halt.  
  
"Hold it, little boy." Adams turned her head and listened. "Do you hear that?"  
  
"Hear what?" Josh asked, slightly out of breath.  
  
"Exactly, the fighting stopped."  
  
"Or my partner Ben kicked your guys' asses."  
  
"Ben? Did you say Ben?"  
  
"Yeah, so?"  
  
"You must be the unknown commander."  
  
"What?"  
  
Adams re-holstered her pistols. "Sorry about that. I'm Captain Tanya Adams of the Allied Forces, and you are?"  
  
Josh brushed the snow off and straightened out his shirt, "Colonel Josh Bitterman."  
  
"Colonel? In who's army?"  
  
"That's yet to be determined. We're trying to figure it out right now."  
  
"What do you mean, 'We'?" Tanya looked back up to the ledge. "Oh, you and Stark."  
  
"General Stark, sweet-cheeks." Josh said. Tanya roundhouse kicked Josh in the head; Josh hit the snow hard.  
  
"Don't you ever call me sweet-cheeks!" Tanya shouted.  
  
Josh scrambled to his feet, now blessed with a splitting headache and a new rage. But the rage subdued, as did the headache, as they walked to the battle scene, and discussed just whose side Ben and Josh were on.  
  
*****  
  
  
  
"So you guys are Allied?" Ben asked.  
  
Djuric nodded. "We were asked by General Von Esling to find you, and escort you to our headquarters."  
  
Ben looked at the men behind him. "And my men?" The militia seemed to all grin at the same time.  
  
The Captain nodded again. "They'll come with us, of course. They'll make fine marines." Mumbles of agreement sounded behind him. "As well as the civilians."  
  
"Good." Ben waved at the soldiers and civilians, "Everyone on the chopper!" The people sprinted full-force at the Chinooks.  
  
Tanya and Josh approached Ben and Dario. Ben looked at the sorry shape that Josh was in.  
  
"Get enough practice on your left hook, Josh?" Ben laughed.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
All four of them, the militia, and the SEALs – wounded or otherwise -, began walking to the helicopters.  
  
"Captain Djuric, tell me one thing." Ben muttered.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Were your men actually trying to hit us?"  
  
"Honestly?" Dario's face turned red.  
  
"Yes, honestly."  
  
"Yeah, we were getting kind of irritated." Dario looked at the snow. Ben snickered a little, then slapped Dario on the back and laughed.  
  
"Wow, you guys are lucky we're on your side!" Ben hopped into the Chinook, "Or the Soviets would hand your asses to ya!"  
  
Djuric looked at Bitterman, who nodded a confirmation. 


End file.
